


Sherlolly Dictionary

by chocolatentropy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alchemist Sherlock, Alternate Universe, Apprentice Molly, F/M, Fluff, POV Sherlock Holmes, Professor!Lock, Romance, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock waxing poetic, Sherlolly Christmas, Sherlolly Dictionary, Sherlolly Freeform, Sherlolly New Year, Student Molly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-09 18:49:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8907868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolatentropy/pseuds/chocolatentropy
Summary: The story of Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper, in dictionary form.~Written in the style of David Levithan's Lover's Dictionary~





	1. à deux

** à deux **

_ adjective, adverb  _

 

 

"Coffee?"

 

Molly Hooper, pathologist and one-time death-faking assistant, looked up from Mrs. Bloom's liver to fix the man standing before her, arms linked behind him and a rather awkward smile on his face, a puzzled glance.

 

"I'm sorry, what?"

 

Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective (formerly deceased), took a breath -obviously, keeping himself from rolling his eyes was quite an effort -and clarified, "There's a nice new café that opened just around the corner. Would you like to have coffee?"

 

The pathologist blinked in confusion.

 

"Uhm… Are you-"

 

"Coffee sounds nice," John Watson, former war doctor and occasional dunderhead, butted in, "I'm in need of a little pick-me-up myself."

 

Sherlock huffed in annoyance.

 

"I don't remember asking you, John. This is an invitation extended solely to Doctor Hooper. I hardly think you would feel comfortable being the third wheel in an intimate date."

 

"D-date?" Molly exclaimed.

 

"Intimate?" John goggled.

 

"Yes, obviously. Now come along Molly, I'm sure Mrs. Bloom will understand you nipping out for a bit in the name of romance."

 

The detective strode out the door, coat swishing around his long legs, without even looking to see if the pathologist was following.

 

Molly and John exchanged bewildered looks. Then, the good doctor tilted his head in the direction of the door.

 

"Well, go on then. Best not keep him waiting. You know how he gets."

 

"Yes. Right."

 

Molly shrugged her lab coat off and strode out the door as if just shaking herself out of a dream. She never would have guessed this morning that a date would be part of her day, much less an "intimate" one with Sherlock "married-to-his-work" Holmes. Just goes to show how in life, surprises (sometimes in the form of newly opened cafés) lurk around the corner.


	2. aberrant

**aberrant**  
  
_adjective_

 

Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.  
  
The work is all that matters.  
  
The body is merely transport.

  
Sherlock Holmes knows all these things, lives by these principles, and yet for all his genius, there still exists the problem of Molly Hooper.

  
Molly Hooper, whose eyes are like warm molten chocolate.  
  
Molly Hooper, whose hair is a soft cascade of cinnamon spilling down her nape.  
  
Molly Hooper, who smells of sunshine, and the birth of spring, and life, and just a touch of death.  
  
Molly Hooper, who has invaded his mind palace, and proves to be both a distraction and aid to his work.  
  
Molly Hooper, whose smile gives him an unwarranted rush of endorphins, and quirks his mouth in an answering smile of its own, without his permission.  
  
Molly Hooper, who gives and gives and asks for nothing in return.  
  
Molly Hooper, whose heart is even bigger than her eyes, which are already larger than the moon as they are.  
  
Molly Hooper, who is quickly turning to be both the bane of his existence, and his one last hope of salvation.

  
Molly Hooper, with her eyes and her hair and her scent and her smile and her heart.

  
Molly Hooper is a glitch.  
  
A glitch that he, to his horror, finds himself getting used to day by day.  
  
A glitch that, if he isn't careful, would one day be something he'd be unable to live without.


	3. absurd

**absurd**

_adjective_

 

 

"I don't count."


	4. academe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor Sherlock and student Molly AU

**academe**

_noun_

 

 

Molly Hooper was a straight-A student.

 

No, _is_.

 

Molly Hooper _is_ a straight-A student.

 

Never mind that the paper she currently held in her hand had a big, fat B scrawled on the upper right hand corner. Surely there must have been some mistake.

 

Now, she never _negotiated_ for her grades. So maybe that's largely in part due to the fact that she never really had to, but she's not going to start anyway.

 

No. She's currently stomping -not stomping, that sounds childish - _walking with fierce determination_ -yes, that sounds better -on her way to Professor Holmes' office to simply inquire as to why he gave her a B, and possibly iron out some misunderstandings. For surely, there _are_ misunderstandings. How else could she have gotten a B, instead of the usual A?

 

Upon reaching her literature professor's dark wood panel door, she took a deep breath, then rapped her knuckles on it, three times. Professor Holmes' distinctly deep voice bade her to come in.

 

She set foot into his office and briefly looked around -it was far more cluttered than she would have expected -before settling her eyes on the professor, sat behind his desk, sheaves of papers spread before him. He had his pen poised over one of the papers, obviously in the process of grading it. He raised an eyebrow, and she decided to waste no more of both their time.

 

"You gave ma a B," she announced.

 

"Yes."

 

She cleared her throat.

 

"I would like to know why."

 

The eyebrow went up further, but this time, Professor Holmes had an almost… _amused_ glint in his eye.

 

"Have you come here to negotiate?"

 

Molly gasped. Her mouth opened and closed a few times before she managed to sputter, "I never negotiate for my grades, Sir!"

 

"No, you never _have_ because the need has never presented itself, until _now_."

 

Molly could feel the tips of her ears heating up, a tell that she was starting to lose her temper. She tilted her chin upwards.

 

"I assure you, _Sir_ , I came here merely to find out why I was given a B for an essay that, in my opinion, was one of my best."

 

"Very well." Professor Holmes stood up -with such fluid grace it made her just a bit angrier -and walked to the front of his desk to face her. "Sentiment, Miss Hooper."

 

Molly blinked.

 

"I'm sorry, what?"

 

"Sentiment," Professor Holmes repeated, "Your review was clouded by sentiment. Instead of an objective analysis of the protagonist's character, you waxed poetic about him."

 

"Sir, I- Well, I mean, reviewing literature is hardly ever free of subjectivity. As you have said so yourself, interpretations would always vary, for different readers view each piece of literature from a different scope."

 

"I agree, Miss Hooper. However, yours has crossed past the realm of subjectivity and more into sentiment. Ah… 'Our protagonist embodies all that the ideal man should be: intelligent, fearless, dashing, and possessed of razor-sharp wit. He could be forgiven his callous attitude towards his lesser fellows because truly they are beneath him.' Those were the exact words, I believe?"

 

For the second time in the space of 5 minutes, Molly found herself opening and closing her mouth repeatedly in a very close impersonation of a fish.

 

"Now, if you would be so kind, Miss Hooper, I have papers to grade. Unless you are willing to volunteer your assistance, I believe I must be getting on with it if I hope to finish within the evening."

 

Professor Holmes turned his back in obvious dismissal of her, and Molly could do nothing but turn towards the door, trying very hard not to kick it down just to make a statement in her exit.

 

Just as she had one foot out on the hallway, Professor Holmes call out, "Oh, and Miss Hooper."

 

She turned to find him still with his back to her, but his head tilted enough in profile for her to see the smirk on his lips.

 

"I do believe our protagonist has fair hair and dark eyes. I simply do not know where the 'wild dark curls' and 'changeable eyes like the sea' came from. I hope in the future, you get your facts straight. Good night."

 

Face aflame, Molly Hooper all but ran out into the hallway, slamming the door behind her.

 

Tomorrow's literature class was going to be hell.


	5. ad infinitum

**ad infinitum**

_adverb_

 

 

 

 

"I love you."

 

"For how long?"


	6. alchemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alchemist Sherlock and Apprentice Molly AU

**alchemy**

_noun_

 

 

Molly huffed and puffed the whole way up the mountain, lugging her heavy (and getting heavier with each step, it seemed like) cloth sack behind her.

 

Her sturdy boots were starting to pinch her toes, and she was sure to be greeted with blisters after removing them. The air was getting crisper and colder the further up the mountain she climbed, but she was perspiring from the effort.

 

This Sherlock had better be worth all this trouble.

 

He was renowned throughout the land as the best alchemist of their time -nay, of the whole century, though also infamous for his temper and sharp tongue. Still, he was reputedly a genius, his brilliance eclipsed only by his deplorable social skills (or lack thereof), and Molly Hooper was determined to be apprenticed only to the best.

 

So she persevered, despite how badly she wanted to just lay herself on the ground and let gravity roll her all the way back to the village she came from.

 

Finally, she came upon what must have been the mouth of a cave, but which now had an oddly shaped wooden door affixed to it. It was ajar.

 

She knocked tentatively, then, when no one answered, loudly.

 

"Hello? Is anyone home? Uhm… My name is Molly Hooper, from the village at the foot of the mountain."

 

Still, no response, so she knocked again, the loudest she can.

 

After a rather lengthy wait, she decided to let herself in and just explain herself when the alchemist arrives and happens upon her already inside.

 

She pushed at the heavy door, and the scene that greeted her caused her to stand stock still as her mind processed what she was seeing.

 

Chaos. Utter chaos.

 

There were books strewn all over the floor, and bits of matter that, from her vantage point, Molly could not definitively identify.

 

The walls were covered in shelves that had jars of various shapes and sizes, along with books and scrolls, oddments and contraptions that she was sure were far ahead of their time, and even… Was that a human skull?

 

The East portion of the room was dominated by a long table topped with glass containers, more scrolls, more odd contraptions, and more as yet unidentifiable materials, though some she recognized as chemicals and gemstones.

 

At the far end of the table, was a man.

 

"Uhm… Hello."

 

Even at her loudest voice, he appeared not to hear her.

 

He had his fingers steepled together beneath his chin, eyes closed, and were it not for the subtle rise and fall of his chest, she would have thought him dead. His dark curls were wild, his skin very pale, the frame under his thick robes lean.

 

She hesitated for a moment before deciding to go further into the room, doing her best to avoid stepping on anything.

 

"And who might you be?"

 

Molly nearly jumped out of her skin. Slowly, she turned her head to the source of the voice, and found the man staring at her, his eyes a startling icy blue. Or were they grey? Green?

 

"M-Molly Hooper, fr-"

 

"Ah! Perfect timing!"

 

He bounded up from his seat, snatched one of the scrolls off the table, strode to her (stepping on a few things that squished under the soles of his boots, but he did not seem to notice), and handed it over with a flourish.

 

"You'd best get started immediately. There is much work to be done."

 

"Uhm… Are you-"

 

"Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Alchemist. Try not to slow me down too much and annoy me with stupid thoughts and questions -though I suspect you have a fair bit more intelligence in you than the average person -and you might last longer than my last apprentice."

 

With that, he skipped back to the table and started adjusting knobs on a device that had what seemed to be a viewing lens.

 

He lifted his head and raised an eyebrow.

 

"Well? What are you waiting for? We haven't got all eternity, Molly."

 

"Oh. Oh, of course!"

 

She scrambled over to the table, her face warm and heart beating double time.

 

There were many whisperings about the famed alchemist, but nobody ever spoke about how beautiful he is!

 

As she sneaked glances at Sherlock in between deciphering the contents of the scroll (what appeared to be instructions for an experiment), she thought about what a great adventure lay ahead of her.

 


	7. avowal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Sherlolly Dictionary Christmas Special for you lovely people.:)

**avowal**

_noun_

 

 

"Deduce me."

 

Every conversation in the flat drew to a stop as everyone turned to look at the pair by the fireplace.

 

Sherlock stood holding out a prettily wrapped gift to St. Bart's head pathologist.

 

Molly blinked in confusion.

 

"I'm sorry, what?"

 

"Deduce me."

 

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. That's, uhm… not really my area."

 

At their spot by the window, John was shaking his head, while his wife Mary, for perhaps the first time in her adult life, looked lost.

 

DI Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson exchanged worried glances. After all, the scene was far too familiar. And such a shame too. This year's Christmas Party at 221B was going so wonderfully, before Sherlock decided to pull this… whatever it was he was trying to pull.

 

Although, this time, it was Sherlock handing Molly a present, and asking her to deduce _him_ instead.

 

Things did not bode well for either.

 

"Molly," Sherlock repeated patiently, "deduce me."

 

The pathologist was starting to look a bit miffed.

 

"Sherlock, I don't know what you're trying to do, but whatever it is-"

 

"Molly, please…" John's head shot up in surprise at the detective's pleading tone, "could you please just humor me?"

 

Molly took a deep breath, looked around to find everyone watching them, then bobbed her head to the side.

 

"Very well. Uhm…"

 

She thought back to that dreadful incident a few Christmases past, recalling how Sherlock did his deductions, and trying to do the same.

 

She looked at the present he held in his hand, then looked at the presents he got for the others, under the tree. The one he held had much nicer wrapping paper, glinting silver with tiny gold stars, while the others had regular red and green giftwrap.

 

"Yes. You're on the right track, Molly."

 

She looked up in surprise. She hadn't said any of her thoughts out loud. But then again, this was Sherlock. He probably deduced her thoughts from the direction of her eyes and the expression on her face. Or maybe he could read minds, and that was his best kept secret.

 

"Go on," he prodded.

 

Molly bit her lip, eyes scanning the gift. It had a bow wrapped around it, a lovely shade of violet. In fact… Her eyes went to Sherlock -particularly, the shirt he was wearing: the aubergine one whose buttons were straining to hold on for dear life across his broad, broad chest. It was her favorite. And also the exact same shade as the ribbon.

 

"That is correct. Keep going. Here."

 

He handed her the present, and she took it hesitantly.

 

In one corner was a card. She looked up at him uncertainly, and was puzzled to find him staring rather intensely at the gift, his expression tinged with… nervousness? Anxiety?

 

With shaking hands, she opened the flap, and gasped.

 

On the card, in Sherlock's bold, scrawly hand, was written just three words.

 

"I love you."

 

Several exclamations of surprise could be heard across the room, but the two people at the center of the whole scenario were oblivious.

 

Molly's eyes remained fixed on the card, hands still shaking, tears threatening to fall from her eyes.

 

Sherlock took a step towards her and bent his head, reminiscent of that other Christmas, but this time instead of his lips on her cheek, she felt them against her own, fleetingly.

 

He straightened up and looked down at her, his face open and vulnerable, no longer masking his anxiety as he awaited her reply.

 

Finally, she lifted her eyes to his, a tear finally spilling down. A huge smile broke across her face, and their audience had to avert their eyes at its brilliance, according the couple a tiny bit of privacy for this moment. No words needed to be exchanged to express their delight at the turn of events.

 

There was no one in the room, however, happier than the consulting detective himself, as his pathologist launched herself into his arms. He briefly wondered if she had noticed that he placed the two of them directly underneath a mistletoe, before she proceeded to kiss him properly.


	8. Bacchanalia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor Sherlock and student Molly AU - continuation

**Bacchanalia**

_noun_

 

 

 

Trying very hard to keep herself from continually tugging at the hem of her white Greek-style tunic dress, Molly Hooper nervously looked around at all the… _revelers_ before her. She gripped her cup (still half full with spiked punch) tightly as she backed herself further under the shade of a tree, just short of hiding behind its trunk.

 

She had found the invitation in her locker. The card (thick, plain white, unscented) merely contained basic details of the party, such as the time and date (doors open at 7:00 pm Saturday), venue (the old Crawford mansion up the hill), theme (Bacchanalia Masque) and dress code (anything Grecian/Roman). It all seemed rather exclusive, as it was an "invite only" sort of affair.

 

Molly had never been to a "grown up" party (read: not one involving Birthdays or Christmas and New Year celebrations with family) her whole life, and she came more because of curiosity than any actual desire to mingle and "have fun".

 

Just 10 minutes into the whole thing and she was already starting to regret her decision. There seemed to be no one else there from her school. Most probably because this was obviously a Uni party, and she was in all likelihood the only high school student there. Which made her wonder even more who could have slipped the invite into her locker. Maybe it was slipped in there by mistake? That would make more sense. In which case, she should not be here at all.

 

Backing up a few more steps, intending to make her exit soon, she came into contact with something solid and warm behind her.

 

She quickly twirled away, sloshing a bit of the punch onto the grass, and the stranger reached out to steady her.

 

She looked up at his masked face and uttered a surprised, "Oh."

 

Even with the mask covering half his face, she knew he was beautiful. His hair was a wild mess of curls, that seemed utterly fitting with the revelry going on around them. Unkempt, free, with a hint of savagery. Even his scent was musk and tobacco and something faintly wild.

 

She had never before understood how, in the novels she's read, the writer would describe eyes as "twinkling" or "dancing" or some such nonsense. But now, looking up at this mysterious gentleman's eyes, even in the dark, she could say that they were… _glimmering_.

 

He was tall, very tall, so that she had to crane her neck to properly look up at him. And his form, what she could see of it underneath his thin white shirt, the top buttons undone, was lightly muscled. His trouser encased legs seemed to go on for miles.

 

_He's so fit_ , was all Molly could think.

 

He was definitely fit. Fit and… vaguely familiar.

 

His mouth (with that distinct cupid's bow that her mind tells her she's seen somewhere before but it's just so hard to recall with the way he was staring at her) curled up in a half-smile.

 

He stepped forward, causing her to take a step back, her eyes still held hostage by his. He took another step, and another, and she kept matching his steps until she felt the rough surface of the tree trunk against her back. He braced his left arm against the trunk, and placed his right hand (large and warm) on her waist.

 

As he bent his head, his face drawing ever closer to hers, she could only flutter her eyes shut. _'He's going to kiss me,'_ her mind whispered, but she was surprisingly unafraid. All she could feel was a pleasant thrill at how deliciously forbidden it all seemed, letting this dark, mysterious stranger kiss her in the shadows, as other masked strangers performed all sorts of wildly inappropriate acts not too far from where they stood.

 

The moment his lips touched hers, the pleasant, tingly warmth she felt was quickly transformed into a scorching heat that seemed to burn her at every point of contact between them.

 

He softly nipped at her lower lip with his teeth, then sucked on it, and her mouth fell slack at the sensations she was bombarded with. He slanted his mouth, and his tongue darted out to swipe at her lips, before slipping in between them, seeking her own.

 

This was nothing at all like what she had expected her first kiss to be. She had always envisioned a blue sky  with fluffy clouds and a field of flowers, and sweetness and butterflies in her stomach. Never would she have thought that it would be darkness and heat and her stomach twisted in knots and a current sizzling under her skin.

 

 

Then suddenly, he lifted his mouth from hers and pulled away.

 

She dazedly opened her eyes to find him staring at her with an odd expression. His nostrils flared as he took heavy breaths, and his eyes had a wild glint in them.

 

"Go. Go home, little girl."

 

Her eyes widened beneath her mask. His voice was low and raspy, barely above a whisper, but like everything else about him, it was achingly, elusively familiar.

 

She opened her mouth but before she could say anything, he turned on his heel and strode away, into the shadows, like he couldn't bear to even have the same moon shining down on them, when just a moment ago he was kissing her like she was dew drops and he a man who has been stranded in the desert for days.  
  


Molly tried to catch her breath. Shaking, she just stood there for a while, leaning against the tree for support. Then, she pushed off of it and slowly made her way out.

 

As soon as she got home, she quickly ran up to her room and threw herself into bed. 

 

The more she thought about the identity of her mysterious stranger, the more her mind formed such an improbable answer that she ended up just more and more confused.

 

Molly Hooper stared at the ceiling for hours, her mind running in circles. She finally drifted off to sleep as the first rays of dawn lit the sky, one word on her lips.

 

"Sir."

 


	9. beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Sherlolly New Year's special to welcome 2017.:)

**beginnings**

_noun, plural_

 

"Do you know what New Years are really about?"

 

"Oh!"

 

Molly whirled around to find Sherlock standing there in his Belstaff, a dark blue scarf wrapped around his neck, a soft smile on his face.

 

She had been called in for work suddenly earlier that day, a freak accident involving a very drunk mother and her two children. It was really quite a way to spend the last hours of the year, and she found herself both physically and emotionally drained.

 

By the time she was done, it seemed too late to rush home for midnight, so she decided to just go up to the roof to catch a fireworks display or two. She was going to be spending New Year's alone anyway. The only difference was that at home, it was warmer, and she would have wine, and Toby... Maybe she should have gone home after all?

 

But now, Sherlock was here. How he found her, she wouldn't even bother to guess. This was Sherlock after all.

 

 _Why_ he decided to seek her out was another matter entirely. Was it just coincidence that she was here, when he decided to spend the last few minutes of the year up on the roof of St. Bart's? Why, though?

 

Sherlock sighed, breaking into her reverie.

 

"You're thinking too loud, Molly. I'm here because I choose to be here."

 

"Oh."

 

He stood beside her and gazed out over the city.

 

"Well?"

 

She looked up at him questioningly, watched the puff of his breath in the cold evening air.

 

"Well, what?"

 

"My question, Molly. What are New Years all about?"

 

Molly stared at the detective beside her, trying to read his expression, but he kept it carefully blank. Biting her lip, she followed his gaze and looked out at the London stretched before them, at all the houses and buildings, with windows burning like eyes, at the lamplit streets dotted by people hurrying home or heading to pubs to greet the new year with family and friends and lovers.

 

"Okay... Uhm... I think, well, isn't it all about beginnings? Closing one chapter and opening another. A chance for a sort of fresh start, I guess. The hope that maybe this time, things will be better... I think."

 

Sherlock nodded.

 

" _Hope_ , Molly. If you strip it all down, isn't it all about hope?"

 

Mystified, she turned her head to look back up at him, only to find him staring down at her, with an odd expression that was a mix of his trademark intensity, and a softness that bordered on tenderness.

 

He faced her and took her hands in his.

 

In the distance, she could hear faint countdowns to midnight.

 

_6.. 5... 4..._

 

"Happy New Year, Molly Hooper."

 

He bent down towards her, and her eyes automatically fell shut.

 

As he touched his lips to hers, fireworks exploded in the distance and behind Molly's eyes.

 

Her mind registered one thing.

 

Sherlock's kiss tasted of hope.

**Author's Note:**

> The chapters are not meant to be read in any chronological order. In fact, some of them are not even set within the same universe. They're simply in alphabetical order, like a dictionary. Lol.  
> This is my first Sherlolly fanfiction posting on AO3. You can find me on Tumblr though (same username), where I've already posted a few bite-sized pieces of Sherlolly fiction. I hope you enjoy this one and the others.:)  
> Also, usual disclaimers apply. All characters are the product of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's literary genius. Excepting, of course, Molly Hooper, who is the brainchild of Moftiss.


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